Blood Red

[SpruceMoose]

My take on your poem.




A kitchen wartorn;
our favorite place to fight.

Our bedroom a battlefield
where love is made and war,
then love again.

Could we leave it all behind;
mend the fence and rebuild the chapel
or do we make the hell of our childhood
our home?  My plea-

let our pain rest;
the enemy is inside us
but it is not who we are.

It takes tender hands to make a nest;
one we have never known.

My white flag flashes 
in your bloodshot heart.

Please don't
pick up the knife
I've just put down.

I am mulling over some of the proposed changes and noticing I really don't like "plea" very much. 
I also noted the difference in formatting between your amended version and my original that I had not given thought to previously.